The Chain Garden Read online

  ‘It’s just perfect. I – I don’t know what to say. Except thank you,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s – I’m –’ Shaking her head she gazed at the ring.

  Mary squeezed her arm. ‘Happy birthday, my dear. Your mother’s calling me. I see you have another guest.’

  Chapter Six

  Grace looked up as Edwin walked in. A head taller than Richard whose hand he was shaking, he looked thin and pale in his black frock coat and clerical collar. Brown hair, silky as a spaniel’s, flopped over his forehead. Her heartbeat thundered, drowning the babble of conversation. Her mouth was suddenly dry. Aware of telltale heat climbing her throat she bent her head. She had been so afraid he wouldn’t come. Go and welcome him. She forced herself forward, saw him excuse himself to Richard. She swallowed.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Philpotts. How kind of you to come.’ Hearing her own voice sounding perfectly calm lifted a great weight from her shoulders. Shyly she offered her hand. As he took it she was astonished to feel his fingers as cold as her own.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Damerel. It was generous of you to invite me.’

  Though brief his clasp was firm. Suddenly she felt immeasurably better.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Given our short acquaintance I cannot presume to call myself a friend.’

  Yes you can. I wish you would. Acutely conscious of an audience she felt her face burning.

  ‘However, in honour of your birthday I hope you will accept this small gift with all – with my best wishes.’

  Raising her eyes she glimpsed agony in his brown gaze. Seeing beads of perspiration on his upper lip her heart went out to him. For an instant she was reminded of Bryce. At village fetes he would address the crowd with confidence. Yet on a personal level he was quiet and reserved. It had never occurred to her that a minister might be shy.

  ‘Th–thank you.’ Grace knew everyone was watching. It must be difficult for Edwin Philpotts, still very much a newcomer, to join a family party. He had known that and still come. The villagers were used to having a new minister every three years. That was the way it had always been. Old or young, with or without family, a minister stayed three years then moved on to a new circuit.

  The Cornish were wary of outsiders. Because of their calling ministers met with less suspicion than most. Even so, it could take several months to be accepted as part of the community. Then all too soon it was time to move on and face the same situation all over again. The demands on a shy man would be immense.

  She fumbled with the wrapping, her fingers clumsy. She looked up, speechless, before dropping her gaze to the slim volume.

  Edwin cleared his throat. ‘Being so busy you probably don’t have much spare time in which to read. However these poems are quite short.’

  She couldn’t resist opening the cover to see if he had written anything inside. To Miss Grace Damerel, she read, on the occasion of her birthday, with kind regards, Edwin Philpotts.

  ‘Thank you,’ she repeated; the words hopelessly inadequate. Kind regards. But he had given her poetry.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Bryce nodded at his brother and everyone drew back so Grace could see.

  Richard was holding a framed painting, sixteen inches by twelve, of a pale cream rhododendron with dark green glossy leaves.

  ‘This is one of several previously unknown species we discovered in Tibet,’ he explained.

  ‘Richard, it’s beautiful,’ Grace exclaimed in delight. ‘Whenever did you find time to do it? Thank you so much. I shall hang it on my bedroom wall.’

  ‘That’s not all.’ Richard looked at Bryce who held out a rolled parchment tied with red ribbon.

  ‘Percy has germinated the seeds,’ Bryce announced. ‘At this moment twenty young plants are thriving in the nursery at Polwellan.’ As everyone clapped and called out congratulations Bryce raised his hand for silence. ‘It has a sweet fragrance. Because it was a new discovery we had the privilege of naming it. We have called it Grace.’

  ‘Oh!’ Grace’s eyes filled and she threw herself into Bryce’s arms. ‘Oh, what a wonderful – you shouldn’t – I don’t deserve–’

  Laying a finger on her lips he muttered hoarsely as he hugged her, ‘No one deserves it more, Gracie.’

  Wiping away tears with her fingertips Grace smiled, her vision misted and her heart full as Patrick announced that dinner was served.

  Taking his place at the head of the table, Henry Damerel fought impatience. Ignoring Grace’s quiet prompting Hester Chenoweth was peering at each place card, obstructing everyone as they tried to take their seats.

  Looking away – Grace would deal with it – he took a large mouthful of his second whisky. The neat spirit burned its way down his throat as he surveyed the dining room. Elegant, tasteful, stylish, it was the result of his efforts. Rebuilt, restored and redecorated thanks to him. His vision and his hard work had hauled the estate back from the brink of ruin.

  He looked along the mahogany table, past gleaming crystal, polished silverware, crisp white napery and bowls of cream and yellow roses. He was a man of substance. Reassured, he drained his glass, feeling the tension ease in his neck and shoulders as the fear that threatened to engulf him retreated.

  His gaze fell on his wife seated at the foot of the table talking to her mother. She enjoyed company and certainly looked cheerful enough. No doubt tomorrow she would be confined to her bed, prostrate with exhaustion. Louise’s pleasure carried a heavy price. Thirty-one years. It seemed like forever.

  On his left Mary and John were laughing together while Alice Hawkins simpered at Bryce. On his right Grace was scarlet as she replied to some remark of the minister’s. She was a good girl. Ran the house like clockwork and took care of her mother. But blushing at her age? She had never been easy in company. Not like Zoe who had been born knowing how to charm. Zoe was a minx: stubborn and infuriating. But she defied anyone not to adore her.

  His gaze slid back to Mary. A strange woman: could make herself invisible, yet not in the least shy. Assured: that’s what she was. Why wouldn’t she be? She was gentry and had money: a combination that bred confidence.

  As she laughed she caught his eye. A brief yet unmistakable frisson startled him. He’d never thought of her in that way. Yet there was definitely more to her than the subdued clothes and quiet manner suggested. He let his gaze drift.

  It still rankled that the twins had preferred to go chasing off around the world gathering plants instead of following in his footsteps, as he had followed in his father’s. Yet he had to admit the experience had matured them, particularly Bryce. He’d always been boisterous, hurling himself into any challenge, forever in trouble and usually sporting at least one bandage.

  In the past Bryce had provided entertainment, both at dinner and afterward, reducing the family and any guests to helpless laughter with tales of disaster. Tonight he was virtually silent. After a long and tiring journey home, not to mention three years of travelling, they would need time to recover.

  He’d always had a soft spot for Bryce. A fine shot and a bruising rider Bryce reminded him of himself: a man’s man. Whereas Richard… Henry frowned. Richard had talent. Dorcas had left him in no doubt of that. But painting was hardly a manly occupation. Photography was different. Involving science and technology it was far more acceptable.

  After melon came asparagus soup, then salmon cutlets. The main course of roast lamb was accompanied by dishes of new potatoes, spinach, peas and baby carrots. Draining his glass Henry motioned to Patrick for more wine. Down the table Alice Hawkins was trying to hold Bryce’s attention by asking what part of India he had found most interesting.

  Watching Bryce divert her questions to Richard, Henry experienced a pang of envy. Not for the travelling: the thought of the noise, heat, filth, and slow swaying trains packed with people made him shudder. What he envied, resented, was their freedom. No business worries denied them sleep. Neither of them had a wife who had ailed nearly the whole of her marriage, nor a mother-in-law who had bought her w
ay into the house and would never leave.

  Plates were removed and Kate brought in Charlotte Russe, strawberry cheesecakes, cherry tarts and dishes of clotted cream.

  Ignoring Louise’s reproachful glance Henry called for more wine.

  Oaks and sycamores cast dappled shadows across the road as Dr John Ainsley, his leather bag beside him on the wooden seat, clicked his tongue and urged the pony into a trot. To his right, flat and glassy in the sun, the river stretched from just beyond the hedge to the overhanging trees on the far side a hundred yards away.

  The high tide had totally submerged the twisting channels and grassy banks. Swallows skimmed and swooped over the water’s surface feeding of spiraling clouds of insects. The clop of hoofs and creak of the trap’s wheels disturbed a heron and it took off with heavy flapping wings.

  In his capacity as the mine’s medical officer appointed by the adventurers, John made this journey every month so that any mine employee with a medical problem could see him without having to take time off work and so lose pay. These regular visits had given him chilling insight into the repercussions of dry drilling.

  Crossing the bridge he turned left off the main road then took a right hand fork. As he reached the top of the hill the thunder of the stamps grew louder. Ahead of him trees gave way to a wasteland of red-tinged rubble and spoil heaps, piles of wood for props and shuttering, and discarded pieces of rusting machinery.

  Guiding the pony through the open gate at the entrance, John drove down to the count house. A skinny boy, his clothes covered in thick red dust, was kneeling on the ground, coughing and gasping. John halted the pony.

  ‘Are you all right, lad?’

  Trying to heave air into his lungs, the boy looked up and nodded, tears streaking his grimy cheeks. He scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  His jacket and trousers had been cut down but were still too big for him, as were his boots.

  John looked harder. ‘You’re Annie Banks’s son, aren’t you? Luke, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the boy repeated, touching his cap again. He turned his head, covering his mouth with a filthy hand as another bout of coughing shook him.

  ‘Don’t you usually drive one of the ore carts for the small stamp mill?’ John nodded towards the waterwheel. ‘What were you doing underground?’

  ‘Kenny’s home sick, sir, and they didn’t have no one to work the air pump while they was drilling.’ His lower lip quivered. ‘I stuck it so long as I could, sir, honest. But I aren’t used to it, see?’ He coughed again, wheezing as he dragged air into his lungs.

  John tried to imagine the ninety-degree heat in the lower levels, the noise of the drills in the confined space, the candles dimmed by dense swirling red dust that filled eyes, nose and mouth. Familiar impotent anger swelled inside him. That was no place for a child.

  ‘I’m sure you did your best.’ Stepping down from the trap he lifted his bag from the seat. ‘Take Clover to the shed, will you? Then I want you to stand where you can feel the breeze and brush that dust off your clothes. When you’ve finished, take ten deep breaths and blow the air out as hard as you can. All right?’

  The boy lifted one shoulder. ‘If you say so, sir.’

  John could see from his expression that while he understood the instructions he didn’t see the point of them.

  Touching his cap the boy reached for the bridle to lead the pony to an open-sided shed where hay and water waited.

  John turned away, hesitating as memory stirred. ‘How is your mother? Is she still brewing her nettle and herb beer?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Yes, and she’ve started selling chips, dinner times and evenings.’

  ‘Has she indeed? How very enterprising.’ Seeing the boy’s uncertainty John winked at him. ‘That means she’s brave and clever. Tell her I said so.’

  The boy’s teeth flashed white in his grubby face. ‘I will too, sir.’ He led the pony away.

  John watched them go. Annie Banks lived in Miner’s Row in a cottage the sun never penetrated. In the past ten years she had lost a five-year-old son to post-measles encephalitis and her longed-for baby daughter to pneumonia. Her thirty-eight-year-old husband was bed-ridden and in the final stages of tuberculosis. With medicines to buy and Luke’s wage as a pump boy only a pittance, Annie had turned brewing skills learned from her mother into a thriving business. But Annie was exceptional.

  A short queue had already formed outside the count-house. Many years ago, when the mine was thriving, the room where now he held his surgery had been an additional office. At that time the purser had required an assistant and a clerk. It was large enough for two straight-backed chairs and the table on which he wrote up his notes. But once he had erected the folding trestle table that, when padded with a pair of blankets covered by an old clean sheet, served as an examination couch, the room was very cramped.

  However, it possessed two useful advantages. The west-facing window let in plenty of light. Also it adjoined the lavatory containing a wash-hand basin fed with hot water piped from the boiler house.

  During the next two hours John checked the progress of several crushed fingers, a badly gashed leg and a powder burn. Because it was necessary to thoroughly clean these wounds of any purulent discharge and the inevitable gritty dust before applying fresh bandages, his hands reeked of carbolic.

  Five years ago almost all the injuries he dealt with were the inevitable by-product of physical labour in cramped conditions: cuts, bruises, sprains, burns, crushed fingers and toes, and the occasional broken limb.

  Now, though these still made up a good proportion of cases, many more men came to him with breathing difficulties, bronchitis and wet, rattling coughs. These were men in their twenties and thirties. Men with corded muscles, their bodies strong-looking, their lungs already damaged beyond repair. As he examined them, looking and listening for the inevitable signs of TB, he found it hard to contain his anger.

  These men worked in hellish conditions to give their families a decent standard of living. They were proud to be miners for it gave them status no other manual work could match. They were in the prime of life, possessing skills and knowledge the mine could ill-afford to lose. Yet they were dying like flies, leaving widows and young children in desperate straits. Something had to be done.

  When he visited as a physician and not a shareholder he ignored lunch: fuelled instead by cups of tea and coffee. During the quiet spell after two o’clock, when the afternoon shift had started down and the early shift were still on their way up to grass, he used the time to file away each man’s record card. These were kept in an oblong tin box to which only he had a key.

  After that he worked on notes to add to the report he intended sending to Parliament. To ensure it was read and acted upon with the urgency it deserved, he would have to by-pass the barrier of civil servants and government minions, and place it directly into the hands of someone with the authority to do something. Perhaps Catherine might be able to help him.

  He became aware of shouting followed by the approaching thud of heavy boots, running. The door burst open to reveal a dust-caked miner still wearing his hardened felt hat; its stub of candle attached to the front with a lump of sticky clay. His jacket, shirt and trousers of coarse sun bleached drill were tattered and stained reddish-brown by the tin ore. But the wet splash across his thighs was scarlet.

  ‘Come quick, Doctor. ‘Tis Paul Moyle. He started coughing on the ladder. We got ‘n up to grass but he collapsed. Bleeding something awful he is.’ The miner clattered out with John close behind him.

  Paul Moyle lay on his side, eyes closed, his knees drawn up. Blood dribbled from the side of his mouth to pool, obscenely bright and frothy, on the bare ground. Someone had removed his hard hat and skullcap. Sweat-darkened hair clung damply to his scalp and forehead.

  Around him his work-mates crouched or stood silent and frowning. John sensed their unease and growing anger. Similar scenes were becoming all too frequent.

 
‘Fainted did he?’ A miner enquired with a trace of anxiety.

  ‘Best thing if he have,’ another grunted. ‘Poor bugger couldn’t get no breath. Choking he was.’

  John crouched beside the young man whose face beneath its dark-brown coating of sweat-smeared dust was pale and waxy. At least he was still alive. But a lung hemorrhage at his age did not bode well.

  ‘How are us going to get ‘n home?’ someone demanded.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ John said. ‘Did any of you want to see me? If there’s anything urgent –’

  ‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ a miner broke in.

  ‘Don’t you mind about us. ’Tis Paul who need you now, doc.’ A rumble of agreement greeted this statement.

  ‘Thank you. Will someone bring–’ But they had already anticipated him and two men at the rear were already striding towards the shed.

  By the time they returned with the pony and trap, Paul had opened his eyes. Clearly in shock, he seemed barely aware of his surroundings. As another miner fetched one of the blankets that had covered the wooden table, two more helped the young man up and John wrapped the blanket around him. He was lifted gently into the trap where he hunched against the wooden seat, ash-faced and shaking.

  ‘You’ll be all right, boy,’ one of his workmates said gruffly. ‘Coughed too hard you did. Prob’ly strained something. We’ve all done it.’

  His was the only attempt at encouragement. The others hadn’t the heart. They didn’t need John to tell them there was very little chance Paul would ever return to the mine.

  With the young man slumped against his shoulder John guided the trap into Miner’s Row, scattering the playing children. They stood in the gutter, pressed against grubby cob walls, watching in silence as he passed. Except for one grave-faced little girl in a calico dress and grubby pinafore. No more than six years old, she was clasping the hand of an even grubbier toddler.

  ‘Hey, that’s my da!’ her tone was accusing. Her expression reflected bewilderment and fear.